


all in

by orphan_account



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, England National Team, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-14 21:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18060785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: dele has something a little different in mind for their nations league celebrations





	all in

**Author's Note:**

> i kinda just wanna post every fic i’ve written so far so it’s not cluttering up my docs, so here you are! 
> 
> maybe it can take your mind off eric’s injury
> 
> oh and set after the nations league croatia game 18th november of course

“Nation’s League isn’t even a real thing!”

 

It’s what Eric splutters as John hands him another disturbingly colourful drink. There’s murmurs around the table, some of reluctant assent but most disgruntled. Dele punches his thigh with a little more force than he intended and watches with a shit-eating grin as Eric upends his new sparkling - no doubt sexy-named - drink all over his jeans.

 

“That’s karma.” He says with a sly, cheeky edge to it - the kind that makes Eric want to smack him round the face, because it’s mainly deployed to mock him and it truly does make Dele’s underlying petulance shine through painfully clear. What’s more, Eric plays with a number of other Dele’s, men who love nothing more than taking the piss and being generally irritating in a way that still manages to make him laugh, miraculously. He’s therefore unsurprised when his drink spillage is met by a chorus of rowdy jeering and stomping feet, before another, thankfully less obnoxious, drink is shoved into his sticky hands.

 

Dele smirks and taps the bottom of Eric’s glass with his eyebrows raised. Eric gives him a look, something he’s not quite sure translates how he feels - _I’m_ _a_ _bit_ _tipsy_ , _and_ _you’re_ _as_ _annoying_ _as_ _always_ , _and_ _also_ _Nations_ _League_ _isn’t_ _a_ _real_ _thing_ \- but Dele sticks his tongue out childishly anyway, so Eric decides Dele can read minds. Dele barks with laughter the very second he thinks that, and he realises with horror _bit_ _tipsy_ is actually _completely_ _plastered_ and he’s saying everything aloud.

 

“You won’t be saying it’s not a real thing when we win it. Get another star on the badge, Diet!”

 

Kyle pipes up from across the table. “Like half a star. The leg of a star.”

 

John giggles and shoves him, all Bambi eyes and dopey smile. Eric watches their exchange with vague interest, sees how John drapes himself over Kyle, fiddles with the zip of his jacket, stares at his lips a little more than is to be expected. He snorts because, unlike the terrible twosome, he’s not entirely oblivious, not even running on a bloodstream of expensive vodka. Dele is watching them too, he realises, his head tilted to the side like a confused puppy.

 

“Bit gay, innit?” He says with his head still at an angle, eyes fixed surprisingly firmly on them considering he handles his drink a lot worse than Eric does and they’ve had the same amount. Eric chuckles and downs the rest of his drink, wincing at the burn and slinging an arm around Dele’s shoulders before he can think better of it.

 

“Dance with me?” Dele asks.

 

“I - what? Um.”

 

Dele’s hand is already in his, slightly clammy but distinctively Dele. Eric knows what his skin feels like, knows the individual lines of his palm and that tiny patch of dry skin underneath the knuckle of his thumb that no amount of expensive skincare can shift. He knows that Dele squeezes back twice as hard if you do, and that he holds on firmly regardless. Eric only knows this because of random training exercises, and silly jokes, and that time they went roller-skating as a laugh. 

 

Eric also knows that Dele is the funniest person in the world to dance with, but he’s never actually been _asked_ before, and after Dele’s nose-wrinkled “that’s gay”, he’s surprised to hear it. Some song Eric doesn’t know starts pounding through the club, his cheeks vibrating with it, and Dele lets out a little squeal of excitement and pulls Eric up until they’re stumbling towards the dance floor. He vaguely hears wolf whistles from the rest of the team as Dele immediately begins doing a strange interpretive dance (Eric supposes the desired interpretation is sexy but he’s not so sure it’s achieved). Eric stands awkwardly, stomach clenching in the hysterics that leave him breathless and he can’t even care that what feels like half his teammates are whispering about them.

 

 _Probably_ _saying_ _how_ _Nations_ _League_ is _a_ _real_ _thing_ , he thinks firmly.

 

“Come on, Diet, get a wriggle on!”

 

All the oxygen in Eric’s body leaves him in a rush when Dele grasps his wrists in a bony grip and holds them firmly at his hips. If Eric forgets about the warmth of Dele’s hands forcing his own to stay in place, he can feel the sharp jut of Dele’s hip bones against his palms. If he strokes his hands against them gently, he can feel the stretch of his skin over them, and if he begins dragging his thumb against the line of them, Dele instinctively pulls closer. It’s all very interesting information.

 

Slightly less interesting, and welcome, information is the realisation that the gleaming white light he can see out the corner of his eye is the flash on Jesse’s phone as he records them with an evil grin. Eric feels the way Dele pulls out of his grip, goes to whine and be bratty, so he does what any sane man would do and pulls Dele firmly back between his legs. Their chests are flush together, now, hard muscle against hard muscle, although Eric suspects there’s a tiny portion just below Dele’s belly button that’s soft and sweet. He feels his cheeks heat at the thought and only just fights down the urge to drag his thumbs across it.

 

Eric has never felt as drunk as he does feeling Dele move against him, clumsy a little, but still lithe and graceful like he is the on pitch, a lanky fucker who can work Eric undone. Eric tells him so and there’s a gleam in Dele’s eye he gets when Eric admits he’s better at something, or he’s right. It’s pure triumph and it sets his pulse rating.

 

“I need another drink.”

 

Eric doesn’t expect Dele to latch onto his hand and be made to drag him through the crowds of people like a lost puppy. His grip has been surprisingly tight all night but he’s terrified to look at the delicate skin of his wrists, lest he see pale fingerprints; he’s not sure what resolve he’d have left after that.

 

“Get me one of those blue ones.”

 

It’s his whiny voice, the one he always accompanies with pathetic puppy dog eyes and that wobbling bottom lip that _hurts_ Eric, for God’s sake. It’s far too hot in this club, and neither of them should really drink more, and they are in public. And still under the watchful eye of their teammates probably holding a team meeting on the situation as Eric speaks. It’s all terrifying, so wrong, and yet the buzz of alcohol sitting heavy on his brain makes him only the tiniest bit embarrassed by the way his cock twitches at Dele’s followed up, whimpering “Please.”

 

“You’re 22, not 2, Dele.”

 

His telling-off would be a lot more scolding, if it wasn’t for the way his words grow strained halfway through, the sudden, devastating weight of Dele’s palm far too low down his back to be considered friendly. Eric isn’t sure if he wants to watch Dele play coy all night, twirling round in little girly circles and turning on the cutesy charm, or yank him away with the force to bruise and fuck him into his hotel mattress. In this moment, he really cannot care about anything other than the pressure of Dele’s warm, soft, familiar hand slipping slowly over his arse, and his batted eyelashes, and the way everything that falls out of his glistening pink lips makes his dick shudder.

 

He’s back to being 16 years old and it’s kind of fun. In a way that he knows in the morning will be disastrous, near diabolical, but hey, football’s coming home in some way and if that’s not a reason to celebrate what is? So Eric pays for their hellishly expensive drinks, downs his for the immediate buzz and watches impatiently as Dele sips at his, even still trying to upkeep this shy, unknowing persona that Eric can see right through, and he’d probably find very funny if he wasn’t planning how to make Dele come.

 

“I’m not a piece of meat, Diet.” Dele teases.

 

“Chop, chop, Delboy. You won’t be anything if you don’t hurry up.”

 

Dele’s cheeky eyebrow raise and distinctive smirk put things ever so slightly back on a level playing field. This is the Dele he knows, his best friend who he adores, who once asked if Eric would shag a bloke if he asked with the promise that it was a _personal_ _conversation_ , _Eric_ , _honest_ , and then sent his answer into the England group chat anyway. The bane of his life and the one thing that, without fail, makes him laugh.

 

Close to an hour later, they stumble into Eric’s hotel room, momentary impatience and determination lost when the entire team started a strange group dance that couldn’t be ignored, drunkenness just on the right side of clumsy before another few rounds, and some shots....

 

Eric blames all this for the way they stare at each other, disheveled in the way that drinking causes, flushed cheeks and askew clothes. He wants to say something, ask if it’s okay, if he wants it, when Dele launches forward and attacks his lips with something not too dissimilar to violence. Once Eric’s stopped laughing, and Dele’s stopped crossing his arms petulantly, he grips Dele’s chin and pulls him in gently, surprised by his impressive coordination and grinning because even a soft touch to alcohol coated lips is already making Dele demand for more, more, _more_.

 

“I won Uno. Last time.” Dele’s breathless, pupils blown wide and dazed. “I won so I think you should suck me off.”

 

“Who won FIFA for the first time last night? Don’t recall it being you, Bamidele.”

 

“You want a trophy for mediocracy? Suck me off first and then we’ll see.”

 

“Big word for you, that.”

 

Dele’s bossiness is ridiculous, truly ridiculous, when Eric knows, and has for a while, that he could bend him over anything and Dele would whine for it harder - it’s the kind of childish grasp at control Eric loves about Dele, even (perhaps more so) when he’s carding his fingers through Eric’s coarse strands of hair and forcing him to his knees on his own hotel room carpet.

 

“Better not film this to add to your collection.”

 

“Ha bloody ha. Don’t flatter yourself.”

 

It’s the last coherent thing Dele manages to get out. Eric noses his dick through his jeans, and feels a wave of heat rush through him, nerves and arousal and anticipation in one heady mix. Dele’s breathing is already stuttering when he peels his too-tight jeans off, and Eric’s can’t help but go a similar way at the sight of Dele’s cock straining the front of his fitted black boxers, a wet spot spreading steadily. Eric feels so in control, and painfully hard, to know he did that without even touching him. It’s glorious.

 

“Any last words?”

 

Every word is breathless and tight-lipped.

 

“You’ve got a tiny dick, Delboy, this won’t be my last anything.”

 

It’s a lie, of course. Eric closes his eyes before Dele feeds it into his mouth, but it feels heavy on his tongue, stretches his lips just the right side of uncomfortable, the tip edging towards his throat and dripping precome incessantly, because Dele is impatient and overeager and it’s all faintly adorable and very hot. It’s not his first time doing this, but one of them, and the first time with someone he _knows_ , so he swallows around the weight his body rejects, tongue flicking along the dripping slit and dragging along the thick vein he can feel throb. Eric almost pulls off to tell Dele that he can feel his heartbeat through his cock, _how_ _weird_ _is_ _that_ , but upon opening his eyes there’s no chance he could stop. Dele looks wrecked, mouth open and panting, whimpering when he slides his tongue along just right. His left hand is flexing manically next to Eric’s head, so he tilts into the pressure, feels blunt nails scratch along his scalp and keeps his eyes open long enough to watch Dele’s right hand play with his chest lazily.

 

If Eric wasn’t sure that he was near bursting out his jeans just from sucking Dele off, his cheeks no doubt crimson and chin damp with spit and precome, he’d make fun of Dele. As it stands, he thinks he could probably come just from shifting his hips up a little against the harsh material of his jeans, and Dele’s broken whining.

 

“Are you never not whinging?”

 

“Shut up!” Dele stumbles. “Do you spit or swallow, Diet?”

 

Eric rolls his eyes, but wraps his lips around the painfully red head even tighter, hollowing his cheeks and trying his hardest to be as good as anyone who’s done this to Dele, determined to see him fall apart and feel it down his throat, along his teeth, dripping from his lips. Watch Dele return the favour, maybe kiss the come out of his mouth, and Eric really needs to empty his mind before he finishes in his boxers like a 14 year old.

 

“Fuck, Eric, c’mon.”

 

The nails in his hair dig in painfully hard, Eric can feel the crescent moon shaped ridges being marked into his scalp, and it’s all the warning he gets before Dele goes boneless and collapses back against the wall, moaning brokenly and pathetically loud as he comes down Eric’s throat. He whines when it gets too much, his spent cock slipping from between Eric’s lips and leaving a trail of come along his chin. Eric’s cock is so hard it’s painful now, truly aching against the claustrophobic material of his jeans and he has to pull his pants and jeans down in a messy hurry just for some form of relief.

 

“Useless bastard.” He mutters, after a sharp hiss at the cold air hitting his cock, dark and dripping which he should probably analyse considering all he’s done is have Dele’s dick in his mouth, but he can’t concentrate on anything other than bringing his palm down to grind against it. Finesse and skill is completely lost here, and he feels slightly self-conscious when he can feel the heavy weight of Dele’s lidded eyes watching him, stroking his cock desperately, on his knees at Dele’s feet, messy with Dele’s come and his own spit, his lips probably berry red and swollen obscenely.

 

“You’re wet.”

 

Eric lets out a strangled groan, managing to bring his other hand up to swat at Dele’s thigh.

 

“You can’t just say things like that!”

 

Dele sniggers, cocky boyish charm Eric thought he’d sucked out his dick returning with a vengeance.

 

“Well, if you don’t want my help, I’m perfectly happy watching you hump the air.”

 

Eric flushes and presses his lips tightly closed, trying so hard to ignore the way his cock bobs, screaming for attention. Dele acquiesces and slides down the wall, legs messy and tangled in a heap, both of them giggling at the absurdity and the insane amount of extortionate alcohol making them shameless. When Dele kisses him now, it’s slow and languid, tongue exploring gently, and drunk off alcohol and an orgasm Dele has absolutely no filter as he pulls back and stares inquisitively.

 

“What do you taste like when you don’t taste of my come?”

 

“For God’s sake, Dele, _please_.”

 

Dele tuts, giggles, looks like he goes to lick his palm before staring at the weeping tip of Eric’s dick and deciding against it. Instead, he smooths his thumb over the head, even bringing it back up to suck it into his mouth and mmming at the taste, cheeky bastard. Eric grasps his wrist and brings it back down, wraps it round his cock with his own and guides him, because he can’t hold out much longer and it _hurts_ , all this waiting. Dele sniggers again but strokes him properly, kissing the corner of his lips every now and again, seemingly obsessed with the salty taste of his own body and mutters little dirty observations in between, loving the way they make Eric’s cock jerk violently because he’s still a little brat even wanking Eric off and Eric loves and hates it.

 

“Gonna come. You’re gonna make me come, Del.” He huffs it out, hips moving upwards in an aborted thrust that makes his thighs shake, his senses suddenly fixated on all the points of sensation in his body; the ache in his knees, the strain in his thighs, his throbbing cock and the pleasure building slowly at the base of his spine, all liquid gold and because of Dele.

 

“Come on then, Diet.”

 

Eric’s faintly embarrassed when the moment finally arrives, has to divert his eyes away from his come splashing against his stomach and Dele’s hand, but when he returns eye contact, Dele slips his fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean and Eric’s body gives a final shudder, a weak, deadly reaction before he shoves Dele to the floor and laughs when he gets a pathetic punch back.

 

“What do I get if we win the Nations League?”

 

“Fuck all because it’s not like it matters to you.”

 

“If I get another mind blowing orgasm, Delboy, let me tell you it means the world to me.”

 

Dele feigns shocked surprise, hand over his heart and face open in faux-shock. It’s bizarre, to think they’ll have to walk into training tomorrow, knowing everything they do now. That they’ll still drive each other to the grounds, and go on their little dinner dates, and play video games. That maybe nothing will change, even with this, and Eric isn’t sure if that’s what he’s looking for or not.

 

He decides he’ll deal with it tomorrow, with a glass of water and a paracetamol, and he’ll place the same on Dele’s side of the bed for tonight, and he’ll look forward to the Nations League final because Dele’s got that little glint of cheeky promise in his eyes that Eric can read across a football pitch or drowned in 13 drinks.

 

“Guess you’ll just have to win then, Diet. God knows you need some incentive.”

 

“Belt up, before I chuck you out my hotel room. Get in the fucking shower, you stink.”

 

Dele sticks out his tongue, eyes bright and teasing, and Eric chuckles as he puts his dick away, and the world slots back into place like nothing has changed.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! feedback welcome x


End file.
